I thought I saw you coming up the hill today
but I did not hear you.
It was the iron gate making music with the wind:
a full triad of notes and pheasants,
pheasants screeching and trying to fly,
strumming the tops of corn,
percussive beats of a long rope against the gibbet
and airs rushing up Gallows Down.

It was not you.
But I did see a score of swallows dancing,
the half-moon high at noon and clouds,
heavy clouds tumbling in the hollows,
autumn shading over Summer Hill
and the path we once took.
Anyway, what would you come?
You have seen and heard these things before.